Case  B 


SPRAYS 
OF  SHAMROCK 


CLINTON  SCOJLLARI) 


SPRAYS  OF  SHAMROCK 


SPRAYS  OF  SHAMROCK 

BY  CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


PORTLAND    MAINE 

THE     MOSHER     PRESS 

MDCCCCX  IV 


COPYRIGHT 

CLINTON    SCOLLARD 

1914 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

MUCKROSS 3 

THE   HILL  OF   MAEVE       ...  5 

AT  KILLYBEGS            ....  7 

THE  CRIPPLE 8 

AN   EXILE 9 

ABBEYDORNEY             ....  10 

A  SONG  FOR  JOYCE'S  COUNTRY      .  12 

BALLAD   OF    PROTESTANT'S    LEAP  14 

ETCHING  AT  NIGHT         ...  16 

THE  SPECTRAL  ROWERS           .          .  17 

TYRCONNELL 18 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  CROSS         .          .  19 

THE  ISLE  OF   DOOM            ...  20 

DESMOND 21 

THE  LITTLE  CREEK  COONANA       .  22 

O'DONNELL  ABOO      ....  23 

NIGHTFALL  IN   SLIGO       ...  24 

CARROWMORE             ....  26 

ON   CARAGH   LAKE  .  27 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

RAHINANE 28 

THE  WIND  OF   MOURNE  ...  29 

MAN   AND   MAID        ....  30 

THE  HUNTER 32 

RAIN  SONG          .          ,          .          .          .33 

A   ROVER 34 

QUEENS 35 

THE  WONDERS            ....  36 

AT  MONAREE 37 

HEATHER  SONG          ....  38 

OFF   CONNEMARA      ....  39 

POPPIES   AT   MONASTERAVEN          .  40 

THE   GLEN   OF  CASTLEMAINE           .  41 

SONG  ...                     ...  42 

KILMELCHEDOR           ....  43 

AT  DINGLE 44 

BACK  TO   KILLARNEY       ...  45 

GLENCAR  WATER     ....  46 

FROM   DERRY  TO   KERRY          .          .  47 

A  KING   IN   KERRY    ....  48 

A  KERRY  LAD             ....  51 

A   KERRY  DAY            ....  52 

vi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A   KERRY   ROAD 53 

A   KERRY  GARDEN    ....  54 

DOWN   IN   KERRY       ....  55 

HOLY   WELLS 56 

LOW  TIDE 57 

THE  "BOHAREEN"  ....  58 

AN  IRISH  IDYL        ....  60 

AN  IRISH  LASS         ....  61 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  LUCKEEN      .        .  62 

DONEGAL   ...  .64 

AN   IRISH   SONG                                           .  66 


vn 


SPRAYS  OF  SHAMROCK 


Just  a  few  songs  of  her, 
N0/  of  the  wrongs  of  her 

Many  and  bitter  and  long  though  they  be, — 
Songs  of  the  hills  of  her, 
Songs  of  the  rills  of  her, 

\reland,  set  like  a  gem  in  the  sea! 

Just  a  few  songs  of  her, 
N0/  of  the  thongs  of  her, 

She  that  is  bound,  and  yet  fain  would  be  free, 
Songs  of  the  gleams  of  her, 
Glamours  and  dreams  of  her, 

Ireland,  girt  by  the  arms  of  the  sea  ! 


MUCKROSS 


T  night  there  came  unto  MacCarthy  More 
A  hooded  vision  with  a  voice  that  said, 
"  Go  thou  straightway  and  raise  a  house  to  God 
Upon  the  spot  where  stands  the  Rock  of  Song  ! " 
So  with  the  golden  lifting  of  the  dawn 

Upsprang  the  chieftain  and  loud  called  his  kerns, 

And  bade  them  seek  the  Rock.     For  many  a  day 

They  roved  the  sweeping  meads  and  fens  and  fells 

In  fruitless  search,  and  ever  forth  again 

Relentlessly  he  drove  them  from  his  hold 

Beside  the  dimpling  waters  of  Lough  Leane. 

u  The  Rock  ! "  he  cried,  "  find  ye  the  Rock  of  Song  !  " 

And  still  they  found  it  not.     Then  the  gaunt  chief, 

His  long  locks  hoary  with  the  frost  of  years, 

Girded  himself,  and  turned  his  tottering  steps 

Abroad  in  the  soft  lengthening  of  the  dusk 

Athwart  a  woodland  close,  and  saw  and  heard 

A  little  maid,  her  pitcher  held  at  poise, 

Singing  an  old  lament  in  minors  clear 


And  plaintive  as  the  twilight,  words  that  voiced 
The  poignant,  passionate  yearning  of  the  soul. 
4  A  sign  ! "  the  spent  man  whispered  low,  "  a  sign  ! 
And  on  the  spot  he  raised  a  house  to  God. 


THE  HILL  OF  MAEVE 

I 

THIS  is  the  hill  of  Maeve,  the  queen, 
A  mighty  bulwark  of  gray-green 

Whereon  was  set,  by  hands  unknown, 
A  rugged  monument  of  stone. 

The  great  winds  mourn,  and  sobs  the  wave 
Beneath  the  lichened  cairn  of  Maeve. 


II 


From  many  a  rocky  Leitrim  height 

O'er  Lough  Gill's  waters,  blue  and  bright, 

From  where  Benulbin  fronts  the  foam, 
And  sees  the  Sligo  ships  put  home, 

Maeve's  hill  is  like  a  pharos  flame, 
As  is  eternally  her  name  ! 

Ill 

'Neath  azure  tides  of  morning  air 
Ripple  the  waves  of  Ballysadare 


>  t. -Under  where  frowning  Knocknarea 
Looks  o'er  the  Rosses  far  to  sea, — 

Looks  far  to  sea,  remembering 
Maeve's  loveliness,  a  vanished  thing. 


IV 


The  cromlechs,  gray  with  eld,  below, 
Recall  the  dreams  of  long  ago, — 

The  dreams  of  kern  and  king,  both  slave 
To  beauty,  and  the  white  Queen  Maeve ; 

And  though  she  slumbers,  deep,  so  deep, 
Her  golden  memory  may  not  sleep  ! 


AT  KILLYBEGS 

A  T  Killybegs  above  the  crags 
•**•    The  gray  gulls  pipe  with  voices  thinned, 
And  all  the  green  trees  are  like  flags 
That  wave  and  waver  in  the  wind. 

At  Killybegs  about  the  dunes 
Rustle  the  crispy  grass  and  whin, 

And  low  the  long  tide  croons  and  croons 
As  it  creeps  out,  as  it  creeps  in. 

At  Killybegs  the  white  sails  race 
When  the  blue  sea  is  like  a  floor; 

Like  doubt  night  falls  with  haggard  face ; 
Sometimes  the  ships  return  no  more. 

The  brown  bee  drains  the  cottage  flowers 
Of  honey  to  their  crimson  dregs, 

And  love  hath  many  happy  hours 
'Twixt  birth  and  death  at  Killybegs ! 


THE  CRIPPLE 

f  HAVE  dreams  of  the  outer  islands, 
-••      Firths  and  forths  of  the  Ear-Away  ; 
I  have  dreams  of  the  heathery  highlands 
Under  the  golden  day. 

I  have  dreams  of  a  sliding  river  — 
Shannon  —  under  the  stars  and  sun; 

I  have  dreams  how  the  oar-blades  quiver, 
And  the  silvery  salmon  run. 

I  have  dreams  of  a  blithe  lad  striding 

Out  through  the  streets  of  Limerick-town ; 

I  have  dreams  of  a  sweet  maid  biding 
Under  a  thatch  of  brown. 

But  here  I  lie  all  huddled  and  hidden, 

(Oh,  the  eternity  it  seems  !) 
Brooding  desolate  and  bed-ridden, 

Living  only  in  dreams  ! 


AN  EXILE 

F  CAN  remember  the  plaint  of  the  wind  on 

the  moor, 
Crying  at  dawning,  and  crying  at  shut  of  the 

day, 
And  the  call  of  the  gulls  that  is  eerie  and  dreary 

and  dour, 

And  the  sound  of  the  surge  as  it  breaks  on 
the  beach  of  the  bay. 

I  can  remember  the  thatch  of  the  cot  and  the 

byre, 
And  the  green  of  the  garth  just  under  the  dip 

of  the  fells, 
And  the  low  of  the  kine,  and  the  settle  that 

stood  by  the  fire, 

And  the  reek  of  the  peat,  and  the  redolent 
heathery  smells. 

And  I  long  for  it  all  though  the  roses  around 

me  are  red, 
And  the  arch  of  the  sky  overhead  has  bright 

blue  for  a  lure, 
And  glad  were  the  heart  of  me,  glad,  if  my  feet 

could  but  tread 

The  path,  as  of  old,  that  led  upward  and  over 
the  moor ! 


ABBEYDORNEY 

A  BBEYDORNEY,  Abbeydorney, 
•*•*•     Long  ago  thy  race  was  run, 
Prone  thou  art  'mid  thickets  thorny, 
Shrine  of  Kyrie  Eleison  ! 

Scarcely  now  a  wild  rose  petal 
The  neglected  cloister  owns, 

And  the  flaunting  dock  and  nettle 
Wave  above  the  chancel  stones. 

Once  through  Kerry  twilights  tender 
Vesper  bells  their  anthems  tolled, 

And  'mid  chants,  in  churchly  splendor, 
Princely  abbots  were  enrolled. 

Tall  Fitz  Maurice  with  his  crozier, 

O'Clonarchy  of  Lismore, 
They  are  less  now  than  the  osier 

Swaying  by  the  Cashen's  shore  ! 

Only  when  the  moon  is  hidden, 
Only  when  the  moor-winds  rave, 

Eerily  arise  unbidden 

Ghostly  transept,  ghostly  nave. 


10 


Only  when  the  night  grows  denser 
March  the  bent  monks  one  by  one, 

Singing  to  the  sway  of  censer, 
Kyrie  —  Kyrie  Eleison  ! 

So,  amid  thy  thickets  thorny, 
All  thy  state  and  glory  seem, 

Abbeydorney,  Abbeydorney, 
Like  a  dim  and  fleeting  dream  ! 


11 


A  SONG  FOR  JOYCE'S  COUNTRY 

A  song  for  Joyce's  Country,  where  the 

grim  wild  mountains  be, 
And  the  wind  wails  over  the  moorland  as  the 

wind  wails  over  the  sea? 
Where  the  new  moon's  silver  sickle  sees  little 

of  grain  to  reap, 
And  the  wraith  of  the  mist  goes  creeping  as  soft 

as  the  feet  of  sleep  ! 

O  a  song  for  Joyce's  Country,  and  the  lonely 

loughs  that  lie, 
Wrapt  in  the  cloak  of  silence,  under  the  great 

gray  sky ; 
For  the  glens  that  have  held   in   keeping   for 

more  than  a  thousand  springs 
The  ancient  Druid  wonders  and  the  secrets  of 

the  kings ! 

O  a  song  for  Joyce's  Country,  and  the  graves 

of  the  mightiest  men 
That  ever  had  birth  in  Erin  !     Will  their  like 

e'er  come  again  ? 
Men   of    the   thews  of   titans,   of  the    strong, 

unwavering  hand, 
Who  wrested  a  meagre  guerdon  from  the  breast 

of  this  lean  land  ! 


12 


O  a  song  for  Joyce's  Country,  since  it  haunts 
one  like  a  dream 

That  comes  in  the  cjusk  ere  dawning,  ere  the 
first  bright  sunrise  beam  ; 

A  dream  of  dolor  and  vastness,  of  clouds  that 
are  swept  and  swirled 

O'er  the  desolate  wastes  and  waters  of  a  joy- 
forsaken  world  ! 


13 


BALLAD  OF  PROTESTANT'S  LEAP 

FT  was  Sir  Frederick  Hamilton's  men 
•••      Were  hungry  for  the  fray, 
And  it  was  a  son  of  the  bog  and  fen 
Would  guide  them  on  their  way. 

By  the  good  book  an  oath  he  took, 

This  glib  and  open  guide, 
And  so  it  was  over  bent  and  brook 

They  needs  must  up  and  ride. 

They  rode  them  fast,  they  rode  them  far, 

By  day's  last  fitful  flame, 
Until,  by  the  light  of  the  evening  star, 

To  a  heathery  slope  they  came. 

Then  spake  the  guide,  with  a  glint  of  pride, 
With  a  catch  of  his  breath  spake  he, 

"  Ye  may  fall,  if  over  the  crest  ye  ride, 
On  the  Irish  enemy  ! 

"When  I  drop  my  cloak  by  yon  stunted  oak, 

Do  ye  ply  the  lash  and  spurs, 
And  there  '11  be  no  one  see  another  sun 

Of  the  popish  worshippers  !  " 


14 


He  has  gone  to  the  crest  by  the  dwarfed  tree, 

He  has  crept  on  foot  and  hand, 
And  now  with  a  wave  his  cloak  drops  he 

As  a  sign  to  the  waiting  band. 

Oh,  it  's  ride,  Sir  Frederick  Hamilton's  men, 

Ye  men  of  ire  and  brawn, 
And  it 's  smile,  ye  son  of  the  bog  and  fen, 

To  see  them  urge  swift  on ! 

Did  they  purge  with  the  sword  the  Irish  camp  ? 

Nay,  for  the  story  saith 
Through  the  evening  dusk,  through  the  evening  damp, 

They  rode  to  a  tryst  with  death. 

It  was  over  a  cliff  that  was  black  and  sheer 

To  the  vale  of  fair  Glencar 
That  they  plunged  with  frenzied  shrieks  of  fear 

'Neath  the  eye  of  the  mountain  star. 

Oh,  it  was  Sir  Frederick  Hamilton's  men 

Set  forth  to  smite  and  slay, 
And  it  was  a  son  of  the  bog  and  fen 

That  guided  them  on  their  way  ! 


15 


ETCHING  AT  NIGHT 

F  WANDERED  in  the  streets  of  Gal  way-town, 
•••      When  night  had  let  her  dusky  curtains  down, 
And  in  a  doorway,  tall  and  fair  and  slight, 
Framed  by  an  inner  beam  of  golden  light, 
Beheld  a  maiden  of  madonna  face, 
Pensive  and  sad,  yet  with  a  nameless  grace, 
Presage,  I  thought,  of  the  unfolding  years, 
That  hide  some  things  that  are  too  deep  for  tears  ! 


16 


THE  SPECTRAL  ROWERS 

WHAT  is  that  shimmering  line  of  white 
Gliding  under  the  stark  midnight  — 
Gliding  —  gliding  —  gliding  —  gliding  — 
Where  the  river  gleams  when  the  moon  is  bright  ? 

There  is  never  a  sound  save  the  night  bird's  cry, 
And  the  languid  water  lapsing  by  — 

Lapsing  —  lapsing  —  lapsing  —  lapsing  — 
Under  the  arch  of  a  leaden  sky. 

'T  is  the  winding  Garavogue's  spectral  crew, 
Bound  for  the  port  of  dreams-come-true  — 
Rowing  —  rowing  —  rowing  —  rowing  — 
With  a  swinging  stroke  that  is  firm  and  true. 

Do  they  ever  reach  their  bourn?  may  be; 
Yet  who  can  say?  —  not  we  ! — not  we  !  — 

Fading  —  fading  —  fading  —  fading  — 
Ere  morn  comes  over  the  hills  to  the  sea. 

'T  is  so  with  all  of  the  visions  of  man, 
Howe'er  he  strive  and  howe'er  he  plan  — 

Fleeting  —  fleeting  —  fleeting  —  fleeting  — 
For  life,  alas,  is  a  narrow  span  ! 


17 


TYRCONNELL 

r  I^HEY  crowned  Tyrconnell 

•*•       On  the  rock  of  Doon  ; 
"  Hail  !  hail  !  "  they  said, 
To  that  anointed  head, 
The  henchman  all ; 
They  led  him  to  the  hall ; 
"Hail!  hail!  Tyrconnell!" 
How  the  rafters  rang ! 
Clang !  clang  ! 
How  the  blades  out-sprang, 

Like  shimmering  lake-water  underneath  the  moon  ! 

They  slew  Tyrconnell 

On  the  rock  of  Doon ; 
"  Traitor  !  "  they  said, 
Of  that  anointed  head, 
The  henchmen  all 
Who  haled  him  from  the  hall ; 
"  Base,  base  Tyrconnell !  " 
How  the  scabbards  rang  !  — 
Clang !  clang ! 
As  the  blades  out-sprang, 

Like  shimmering  lake-water  underneath  the  moon  ! 


18 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  CROSS 

WHERE  the  wild  sea-mew  flocks  and  flees, 
And  neither  winds  nor  skies  beguile, 
Foam-set  amid  the  Irish  seas 
Is  rugged  Skellig  Michael  isle. 

Up  its  escarpments,  rough  and  grim, 
To  its  bleak  summit  rimmed  with  moss, 

The  monks  of  old  with  prayer  and  hymn 
Hewed  out  the  weary  "Way  of  the  Cross." 

Gone  are  these  holy  toilers  —  gone  ; 

They  rest  now  in  their  long  repose, 
From  the  red  dusk  to  the  red  dawn, 

'Neath  the  sea-pinks  and  tangled  rose. 

But  sorrow  bides  with  us  and  ill, 

And  stress  and  sacrifice  and  loss, 
And  we  must  strive  to  meet  them  still 

Climbing  the  weary  "Way  of  the  Cross/' 


19 


THE  ISLE  OF  DOOM 

||  UT  of  the  mist  off  Galway  shore, 
V-'      Out  of  the  morning  mist. 
Rose  the  island  of  Hy  Brasail 
With  its  crags  of  amethyst ; 

Crags  of  purple  and  amethyst, 

And  meads  of  gleaming  green, 
Rose  the  island  of  Hy  Brasail 

With  a  shimmer  of  sea  between. 

And  what  shall  come  to  Galway  shore, 

What  shadow  of  doom  prevail, 
With  this  fading  dream  of  the  mists  of  morn, 

This  island  of  Hy  Brasail? 


20 


DESMOND 

the  u Church  of  the  Name"  lies  Desmond, 
The  body  of  Desmond  lies, 
And  the  wind  of  the  east  cries  "  Desmond," 
And  "  Desmond  "  the  west  wind  cries. 

And  the  wind  of  the  south  calls  "  Desmond," 
And  "  Desmond  "  the  north  wind  calls, 

As  it  sweeps  round  the  keep  Ardnagreagh, 
The  keep  of  the  crumbling  walls. 

And  the  dawn  wind  grieves  for  Desmond, 
And  "  Desmond  "  the  night  wind  sighs ; 

And  where  is  the  head  of  Desmond, 
He  of  the  dusk-deep  eyes? 

They  buried  the  body  of  Desmond 
Hard  by  the  "Church  of  the  Name," 

But  they  hung  the  head  of  Desmond 
High  o'er  the  Gate  of  Shame. 

Yet  he  was  a  brave  man,  Desmond, 

A  man  of  a  hundred  score, 
So  all  the  winds  of  the  upper  air, 

They  mourn  for  him  evermore. 


21 


THE  LITTLE  CREEK  COONANA 

,  the  little  creek  Coonana, 
How  clear  it  runs  and  cold 
Where  "  Conn  of  the  hundred  battles  " 
Fought  in  the  days  of  old  ! 

Only  the  long  wind  dirges, 

Only  the  long  wind  cries, 
Where  the  giant  Knocknatubber 

Mounts  to  the  vast  gray  skies. 

Only  the  wind  and  the  surges 
Moan  and  moan  and  moan, 

But  the  little  creek  Coonana, 
It  sings  in  a  merry  tone. 

Only  the  wind  and  the  surges 
Have  aught  to  do  with  fears ; 

Only  the  wind  and  the  surges 
Tell  the  tale  of  tears. 

But  the  little  creek  Coonana, 

It  lilteth  cheerily 
Where  the  giant  Knocknatubber 

Glooms  on  the  glooming  sea. 


22 


O'DONNELL  ABOO 


of  Ulster  .came  O'Donnell, 
Black  O'Donnell  and  his  crew,— 
Kelly,  More,  Mac  Carthy,  Connell, 
Joined  the  cry  —  "  O'Donnell  Aboo  !  " 

Woe  once  more,  red  woe  for  Kerry, 
Blood-drops  were  as  mountain  dew 

When  that  cry  so  mad,  yet  merry, 

Rang  and  rang—  "  O'Donnell  Aboo  !  " 

Gone  those  sanguine  days  of  slaughter, 
Sword  and  matchlock,  pike  and  brand  ; 

Peace  now  o'er  the  ways  of  water, 
Peace  o'er  all  the  length  of  land. 

Yet  sometimes  when  night  is  sealing 
Cairn  and  ruined  shrine  from  view, 

Down  the  Kerry  glens  goes  pealing 
That  wild  cry  —  "  O'Donnell  Aboo  !  " 


23 


i 


NIGHTFALL  IN  SLIGO 


HEARD  the  bells  of  Sligo  say 
The  tranquil  requiem  of  day. 


I  saw  the  fires  of  sunset  burn 
Dim  in  the  great  west's  golden  urn. 

O'er  Calvary's  sharp  spire  afar 
Clear  flowered  one  hyacinthine  star. 

Then  mother  Night  her  children  hid 
Under  her  purple  coverlid. 


24 


II 


Well  can  I  recall  that  eve  at  Sligo, 

And  the  vacant  arches  of  the  abbey 

Framing  the  ethereal  rose  of  sunset ! 

Round  about  me  silence  and  gray  shadow 

Peopled  with  the  wraiths  of  time  departed, — 

Monks  with  back-thrown  cowls  who  pace  the  cloisters 

Now  deep-mounded,  crumbled,  clad  with  ivy. 

No  more  from  the  tower  their  chimes  of  silver 

Will  the  bells  fling  o'er  the  town  and  river, 

O'er  the  Garavogue  soft-gliding  seaward  ! 

Nevermore  —  save  in  deep  dreams  at  midnight. 

Death,  the  immemorial  lord  of  mortals, 

He  is  abbot  in  the  aisles  of  Sligo 

Till  the  spheres  proclaim  the  resurrection  ! 


25 


CARROWMORE 

nPHE  gray  winds  call  o'er  Carrowmore, 

-*•       Call  in  the  white  of  the  dawn, 

And  the  grasses  sigh  o'er  Carrowmore 

When  the  purple  night  draws  on. 

The  cromlechs  stand  on  Carrowmore 
As  they  've  stood  since  who  can  say ; 

And  the  thin  wraiths  flit  o'er  Carrowmore 
Between  the  dusk  and  the  day. 

There  's  never  a  hush  on  Carrowmore 

Come  autumn  or  come  spring, 
For,  oh,  the  tongues  of  Carrowmore, 

They  are  fain  of  whispering ! 

And  over  and  over  Carrowmore 
'T  will  be  ever  thus,  meseems,— 

Like  the  winnow  of  wings  o'er  Carrowmore 
The  surge  of  the  tide  of  dreams  ! 


26 


ON  CARAGH  LAKE 


ON  Caragh  lake  the  evening  light 
Is  violet  and  amethyst, 
And  the  dark  shadows  of  the  pines 
In  silence  keep  their  twilight  tryst. 

And  high  beyond  the  purple  groves, 

The  sweeping  moors,  the  climbing  fells, 

The  rugged  Kerry  mountains  stand 
Like  grim  eternal  sentinels. 

In  dying  whispers  on  the  shore 
The  ripples  lap,  the  ripples  break, 

And  there  is  peace  beyond  all  words 
As  night  descends  on  Caragh  lake  ! 

II 

In  unexpected  grooves  of  flight 

A  blundering  bat  swoops  swiftly  by ; 

From  out  a  coppice  drifts  a  bird's 
Last  plaintive  melody. 

The  lake  is  like  a  mirror  dim 

With  no  disturbing  breath  to  mar, 

While  o'er  a  lonely  fell  there  burns 
One  white  vespernal  star. 

27 


RAHINANE 

WRAPT  in  mist  and  washed  with  rain 
Is  the  hill  of  Rahinane ; 
Compassed  by  the  hosts  of  sleep 
Is  its  keep. 

Only  shadows  come  and  go ; 
Only  wraiths  flit  to  and  fro; 
And  the  bat,  grotesque  and  blind, 
And  the  wind. 

Just  a  shard  of  shattered  hope 
On  a  barren  Kerry  slope ; 
Just  a  ruin  in  the  rain, 
Rahinane  ! 


28 


THE  WIND  OF  MOURNE 

^  I  ^HE  wind  of  Mourne  comes  over  the  hill, 
•*•       Over  the  hill  with  a  trill  of  song, 
And  the  word  of  the  wind  sets  my  heart  athrill, — 
"Though  life  is  brief,  yet  love  is  long ! " 

I  seek  my  sweet  where  the  roses  stir, 

And  the  stars  overhead  are  a  marching  throng, 

And  this  is  the  tale  that  I  tell  to  her,— 
"Though  life  is  brief,  yet  love  is  long !  " 


29 


MAN  AND  MAID 


'  '  T    KNOW  a  lad  in  Leitrim,  I   know  a 

A    lad,"  said  she, 

"  I  know  a  lad  in  Leitrim  would  give  his  heart 
for  me  ! " 


"I  know  a  maid  in  Mayo,  I  know  a  maid," 

said  he, 
"  I  know  a  maid  in  Mayo  would  give  her  heart 

to  me  ! " 

u  Go  to  your  maid  in  Mayo,  go  to  your  maid," 

cried  she; 
u  Go  to  your  maid  in  Mayo,  for  all  —  for  all  of 


"Go  to  your  lad  in  Leitrim,  go  to  your  lad," 

cried  he, 
uGo  to  your  lad  in  Leitrim,  for  all  —  for  all  of 

me!" 

"And  yet  —  and  yet — "  she  faltered,  "  and  yet  — 

and  yet,"  blushed  she, 
"That  lad  may  stay  in  Leitrim  !    It 's  here  I  'd 

rather  be  ! " 


30 


uAnd  yet  —  and  yet  —  "  he  echoed,  "  and  yet  — 

and  yet—  "  smiled  he, 
"  That  maid  may  stay  in  Mayo.    It 's  there  I  'd 

have  her  be  !  " 

'T  is  merry  down  in  Kerry  beside  the  laughing 

sea; 
'T  is  merry  down  in  Kerry  when  man  and  maid 

agree  ! 


31 


THE  HUNTER 

I   CREPT  up  Benbulbin  a-hunting  the  boar; 
A      Mist  swooped  on  the  heather,  mist  swept 

down  the  shore, 
And  all  of  the  tongues  of  the  mountain,  they 

murmured  behind  and  before. 

Then  out  of  a  cleft  rose  a  terrible  cry, 
And  a  form  like  a  demon  went  ravening  by, 
And  I  fell  in  a  quake  on  the  moss,  and  I  thought 
I  should  die. 

I  'm  no  hunting  man  now,  and  I  sit  by  the  fire, 
And  whenever  the  wind  keens  around   by  the 

byre, 
I  shiver  and  rock  like  a  reed  that  has  root  in  the 

mire. 

And  if  you  're  a  young  man,  and  sound  to  the 

core, 
And  a  sweet  maid  is  waiting  you  home  at  the 

door, 
Beware  how  you  creep  up  Benbulbin  a-hunting 

the  boar ! 


32 


RAIN  SONG 

,  it 's  gray  rain  in  the  valleys, 
White  rain  where  the  moorland  lies, 
And  in  from  the  bleak  sea-borders 
A  gust  that  keens  and  cries. 

Sheep  huddle  in  the  hollows, 

And  the  cattle  seek  the  byre, 
But  I  must  be  up  and  faring 

Away  from  the  warm  peat  fire ; 

I  must  be  up  and  faring, 

For  this  is  the  hour  of  tryst, 
And  Sheilah  will  be  waiting 

At  the  glen  amid  the  mist. 

Oh,  what 's  gray  rain  to  lovers, 
And  what  though  white  rains  fall, 

When  blue  skies  shine  in  Sheilah's  eyes 
For  a  lad  of  Donegal  ! 


33 


A  ROVER 

,  I  am  just  a  rover 
Among  the  roving  men 
Who  loves  to  watch  the  sunlight 
Upon  the  flowering  fen ; 

Who  fain  would  feel  the  heather 
Dew-soft  beneath  his  tread 

When  morning  parts  the  cloud-wrack 
Above  Benbulbin's  head ; 

Who  likes  to  lie  and  linger 

Until  the  rising  moon 
Shows  all  her  midnight  glories 

High  o'er  the  Lough  of  Cloon ; 

Whose  feet  were  shaped  to  follow 

The  road's  eternal  lure 
From  stormy  Stockarudden 

To  sunny  Knockanure ! 

But  since  there  's  Sheilah  calling, 
('T  is  love  that 's  in  her  call !) 

Faith,  1  am  just  a  rover 

Who  '11  rove  no  more  at  all ! 


34 


QUEENS 

t^AIR  Maeve,  that  was  queen  of  Beauty, 
•*•        Whither,  whither  has  she  gone? 
Ask  the  cairn  that  over  Sligo 

Lifts  its  stones  to  greet  the  dawn  ! 

Deirdre,  that  was  queen  of  Sorrow, 
Whither,  whither  has  she  fled  ? 

Ask  the  woods  of  Finglas  Water 
That  once  knew  her  lissome  tread  ! 

Queens  !  —  they  are  no  more  than  mortal ; 

Even  they  must  pale  and  pass 
Like  the  prismy  dews  of  dawning 

On  the  heather  and  the  grass  ! 


35 


THE  WONDERS 

I  DREAM  of  the  ancient  wonders,  of  the  isle 
of  Hy  Brasail 
That  rides  through  the  mists  of  Mayo,  then 

fades  like  a  fading  sail ; 
I  dream  of  the  ancient  wonders,  but  there  's  one 

that  haunts  me  more, 

'T  is  the  faun-like  grace  of  Moira  upon  Lough 
Corib's  shore. 

I  dream  of  the  ancient  wonders,  of  the  wells  of 

Death  and  Life, 
Of  the  voices  of  the  Forest  that  quell  both  hate 

and  strife ; 
I  dream  of  the  ancient  wonders,  but  greater  than 

them  all 
Is  the  luring  laugh  of  Moira  when  day  's  at 

evenfall. 

I  dream  of  the  ancient  wonders,  of  the  Cross 

caught  up  in  air, 
Of  the  swan  of  sweet  Feale  Water  that  was  a 

maiden  fair; 
I  dream  of  the  ancient  wonders,  but  each  fades 

in  eclipse 
At  the  lifted  arms  of  Moira,  and  Moira's  lifted 

lips! 


36 


AT  MONAREE 

WHEN  springtime  comes  to  Monaree  I  know 
How  the  blue  hyacinths  blow, 
And  how  the  daffodil  lights  its  golden  glow. 

These  blossoms  are  remembrancers  of  those 

Who  lie  in  long  repose, 

Lost  to  our  earthly  scenes  of  joys  and  woes, — 

The  saints  of  other  days.     How  fair  to  see 

These  living  emblems  be 

Of  their  good  deeds  —  with  spring  at  Monaree  ! 


37 


HEATHER  SONG 

1DLUE  weather,  blue  weather  abroad  on  the  moors, 
•^^     And  the  cry  of  the  wind  that  elates  and  allures ; 
Sing  "  hey"  and  sing  "ho"  for  the  heather ! 

The  brook  in  the  bracken,  it  prattles  and  purls, 
And  the  lips  of  the  rose  are  as  red  as  a  girPs ; 
Sing  u  hey  "  and  sing  "  ho  "  for  the  heather  ! 

And  the  path  that  leads  up  from  the  stile  at  the  start 
Is  the  path  of  my  longing,  the  path  of  my  heart ; 
Sing  "  hey  "  and  sing  u  ho  "  for  the  heather  ! 

For  I  know  I  shall  find  her,  my  fair  heather-bell, 
In  the  warm  little  dip  at  the  crest  of  the  fell, 
And  her  smile,  ah,  the  burden  of  love  it  will  tell  ! 
Sing  u  hey  "  and  sing  "  ho  "  for  the  heather  ! 


38 


OFF  CONNEMARA 

OFF  the  coast  of  Connemara, 
Sailor,  sailor,  what 's  the  hail  ? 
"Dip  the  sail  to  Saint  Macdara  — 

Dip  the  sail !  " 

So  we  dipped  it  as  we  tripped  it 
Southward  with  the  fluting  gale. 

Long  ago  did  Saint  Macdara 
Pass  beyond  this  mortal  pale ; 

Yet  to-day  off  Connemara 
Deeds  of  godliness  avail ; 

Where  the  good  old  saint  said  masses 

Every  sailor,  as  he  passes, 
Dips  the  sail. 


39 


POPPIES  AT  MONASTERAVEN 

y\  S  clear  on  my  mind  are  graven 
•*•  *•     As  the  carving  upon  a  shield 
The  poppies  at  Monasteraven, 
And  the  cottage  in  the  field ; 

The  glint  of  a  thick  thorn  coppice 

Greenly  girdling  all, 
And  the  glow  of  the  scarlet  poppies 

Under  the  cottage  wall  ! 

Just  a  fleeting  vision 

Caught  as  I  hurried  by, 
A  little  scene  elysian 

Under  the  morning  sky. 

For  some  one  a  happy  haven, 
It  thus  to  my  heart  appealed, 

The  poppies  at  Monasteraven, 
And  the  cottage  in  the  field. 


40 


THE  GLEN  OF  CASTLEMAINE 

,  the  shadows  they  lie  deep  in  the  glen 

of  Castlemaine, 
Purple  as  the  gulfs  of  sleep,  gray  as  are   the 

drifts  of  rain  ! 
Here  are  eerie  feet  that  creep  when  the  moon 

is  on  the  wane. 

In  the  glen  of  Castlemaine  there  are  eldritch 

tongues  that  call ; 
And  the  little  leaves  have  words  that  will  hold 

the  heart  in  thrall. 
In  the  glen  of  Castlemaine  there  's  a  glamour 

over  all. 

For  the  fays  have  cast  their  spell  o'er  the  glen 

of  Castlemaine ; 
There  is  brooding  wonder  there,  but  no  dream 

of  blight  or  bane  ; 
Here,  if  you  have  loved  and  lost,  you  may  find 

your  love  again  ! 


41 


SONG 

T  UST  the  sun  on  a  slope  of  heather, 
*-*      The  long  blue  wind  and  the  open  sea ; 
All  the  cares  of  the  world  in  tether, 
And  nobody  there  but  you  and  me  ! 

That 's  my  wish  in  the  golden  weather ; 

Love,  you  echo  the  wish  with  me  ? 
Come,  then,  ho,  for  the  slope  of  heather, 

The  long  blue  wind  and  the  open  sea ! 


42 


KILMELCHEDOR 


removed  from  strife  and  war 
Is  the  shrine  of  Kilmelchedor; 
O'er  one  crumbling  archway  see 
Clearly  graven  —  Domine  ! 

Master  then  and  master  still, 
How  we  lean  upon  His  will 
Who  forevermore  will  be 
Unto  all  men  —  Domine  ! 


43 


AT  DINGLE 

A  T  Dingle,  upon  sand  and  shingle, 

Softly  the  ripples  curve  and  creep ; 
Without  the  white-caps  meet  and  mingle, 
Without  the  breakers  range  and  leap. 

Here  there  is  calm,  here  there  is  quiet, 
And  the  sweet  sense  of  long  delay ; 

There  time  and  tide  by  winds  that  riot 
Seem  from  their  moorings  swept  away. 

Which  will  you  choose  from  life,  my  masters,- 
Where  waves  are  lulled  to  dream  at  ease, 

Or,  in  the  face  of  grim  disasters, 
To  sail  with  daring  down  the  seas  ? 


44 


BACK  TO  KILLARNEY 

OH,  it 's  back  to  Killarney,  the  glow  and  the  gleam  of  it, 
Back  to  Killarney  for  me ; 
Back  to  Killarney,  the  vision  and  dream  of  it, 
Back  to  Killarney,  my  own  countrie  ! 

Back  to  Killarney  at  sun  or  at  shower-time, 

Back  to  Killarney  for  me ; 
Back  to  Killarney  at  frost  or  at  flower-time, 

Back  to  Killarney,  my  own  countrie  ! 

Back  to  Killarney  whose  soil  seems  a  part  of  me, 

Back  to  Killarney  for  me ; 
Back  to  Killarney  to  soothe  the  sad  heart  of  me, 

Back  to  Killarney,  my  own  countrie  ! 


45 


GLENCAR  WATER 

T  STOOD  by  Glencar  Water 
-*•      When  spring  filled  all  the  air, 
And,  oh,  by  Glencar  Water 
It 's  a  lovely  place  to  fare  ! 

The  song  of  Glencar  Water 
It  has  such  silvery  frets ; 

And  there,  by  Glencar  Water, 
Are  banks  of  violets. 

But  harsh  seems  Glencar  Water 

To  Norah's  soft  replies, 
And  the  flowers  by  Glencar  Water 

Are  naught  to  Norah's  eyes  ! 


46 


FROM  DERRY  TO  KERRY 


'  rr^vVIXT  Derry  and  Kerry  there  's  many  a  mile  ; 

-*•       They  've  right  men  in  Derry,  no  doubt  ; 
But  give  me  the  Kerry  man's  blarneying  smile, 
And  give  me  the  Kerry  girl's  conjuring  wile, 
And  lips,  like  a  peach,  in  a  pout  ! 

And  give  me  the  sails  tacking  in  to  Tralee, 

And  the  dip  of  the  bluff  Dingle  bows, 
And  under  Beenaman  the  surge  of  the  sea, 
The  heathery  slopes  that  are  haunts  for  the  bee 
Where  Carraghmore  raises  its  brows  ! 

From  Derry  to  Kerry  the  leagues  they  are  long 

For  a  foot-weary  rover  to  wend, 
But  I  take  the  far  track  with  a  snatch  of  a  song, 
And  a  ready  forgetting  of  aught  that  is  wrong, 

If  Kerry  's  the  goal  at  the  end  ! 


47 


A  KING  IN  KERRY 

DREAMED    a    dream,    mavourneen,    I 

dreamed  a  dream  yestreen, 
That  I   was   King  in    Kerry,   and    you   were 
Galway's  Queen. 

I  roused  and  ranged  about  me  three  score  of 

burnished  spears, 
And  rode  across  the  moorland,  the  north  wind 

round  my  ears. 

It  bore  me  buoyant  tidings,  — your  beauty  and 

your  grace, — 
And,  as   I   galloped  forward,  I  yearned  upon 

your  face. 

We    fared    by    Abbeydorney,    Listowel    and 

Lixnaw, 
Where  all  my  word  was  wisdom,  and  all  my 

look  was  law. 

We  never  paused  to  bivouac ;  we  never  paused 

to  sleep 
Where  murmurous  Feale  Water  ran  shallow  or 

ran  deep. 


48 


We  swam  the  swirl  of  Shannon  ;   we  hurled 

back  to  his  lair 
The  blustering  O'Brien  who  ruled  the  kerns  of 

Claire. 

Then,  mire    and   foam-bespattered,  about  the 

dusk  of  day 
We  came  where  Galway's  turrets  loomed  over 

Galway's  bay. 

The  silence  throbbed  with  trumpets,  tumultu 
ous,  elate, 
And  you,  a  flower  of  wonder,  bloomed  in  the 

castle  gate. 

You  made  the  flush  of  sunset  seem  but  a  pallid 

thing ; 
Your  voice  had  all  the  rapture  that  trembles 

through  the  spring. 

Within  your  eyes  the  love-light  was  glory  after 

drouth ; 
All  summer's  hoarded  honey  was  one  kiss  from 

your  mouth. 

Deirdre,  whose  tragic  beauty  the  great  Cuchullin 

knew, 
And   Maeve,  the  long  lamented,  sooth,  what 

were  they  to  you  ! 


49 


In  through  the  rush-strewn  hallway  you  led  us 

to  the  feast; 
And  when  the  wine  was  drunken  there  stood 

the  stoled  priest. 

He  oped    the   holy  bride-book;    he   read   the 

marriage  rite ; 
And    then  —  and    then  —  mavourneen,  it   was 

our  wedding  night ! 

Would   I   might  dream  it  over,  the  dream  I 

dreamed  yestreen, 
That  I   was   King  in   Kerry,   and    you   were 

Galway's  Queen  ! 


50 


A  KERRY  LAD 

^T^  HERE'S  a  Kerry  lad  a- wandering  across 
•*•       the  dipping  sea, 

A  Kerry  lad  a-wandering  the  foam, 
And  oh,  the  swelling  joy  of  it,  the  joy  that 

there  will  be 
When  that  wandering  Kerry  lad  comes  home ! 

There  '11  be  glad  voices  calling  him,  glad  voices 

in  the  street, 

And  hands  to  clasp  the  hands  of  the  gossoon ; 
There  11  be  soft  winds  a-whispering  above  the 

fields  of  peat, 
And  little  birds  a-carolling  in  tune  ! 

The  Kerry  sky  '11   be   bluer  then,  for  all   the 

clouds  will  part, 

And  greener  '11  be  the  grass  above  the  loam, 
And  oh,  the  happy  feeling  in  one  lonely  Irish 

heart 
When  that  wandering  Kerry  lad  comes  home ! 


51 


A  KERRY  DAY 

UNDER  the  sweep  of  a  fell  the  smoke- 
reek  curls  and  drifts 
Where  a  white-walled  cottage  stands  nestling 

amid  the  green ; 

Kerry  skies  above  arched  with  their  azure  rifts 
Where  a  glint  of  sun  peeps  through  to  brighten 
the  peaceful  scene. 

Cattle  stand  at  graze,  and  there  are  the  piles  of 

peat, 
And  there  is  the  swift  Feale  Water  rimpling, 

dimpling  away ; 
And  there  are  the  cocks  of  hay,  and  the  smell 

of  the  hay  is  sweet, 

And  this  is  the  round  and  sum  of  a  quiet 
Kerry  day  ! 


52 


A  KERRY  ROAD 

SNOW  of  the  blackberry  bloom,  purple  of 
heather  bells, 
The  fir  and  the  oak  tree  boughs  with  the  ivy 

round  them  twining ; 
Sheen  of  a  distant  lake,  brown  of  the  dipping 

fells, 

Racing  clouds  overhead,  and  the  fitful  sun 
a-shining ! 

Bracken  and  thorn  and  whin,  and  somewhere  a 

cheeping  bird ; 
Pits  of  peat,  and,  then,  a  cart  with  its  cheery 

load; 
In  from  Dingle  Bay  the  wind  with  its  ancient 

word  ; 
On  and  up  and  on  —  and  this  is  a  Kerry  road  ! 


53 


A  KERRY  GARDEN 

THHERE  'S  a  garden  that  slopes  to  the  south 
•*•       and  the  sun, 

A  garden  in  Kerry  I  know, 
Where  the  poppy  's  a-bloom,  and  the  red  roses 

run 

O'er  the  wall,  and  the  pampas-plume's  stream 
ers  seem  spun 
Of  the  floss  of  the  moon  in  the  dusk  watches 

won, 
And  the  lake  is  a-shimmer  below. 

There  's  a  garden  that 's  fair,  be  it  day,  be  it 

night, 

A  garden  in  Kerry  I  know, 
And  never  an  orient  dream  of  delight 
Can  match  with  this  garden  so  sweet  to  my 

sight, 

For  here  is  heart's  home  to  a  wandering  wight, — 
It  calls  me  wherever  I  go  ! 


54 


DOWN  IN  KERRY 


in  Kerry  maids  are  merry, 
Down  in  Kerry  maids  are  fair; 
Laughin'  eyes  an'  lips  o'  cherry 
From  Fearle  Water  to  Kenmare  ! 

Sunny  weather  in  the  heather, 
Sunny  weather  everywhere, 

Be  but  man  an'  maid  together 
From  Feale  Water  to  Kenmare  ! 

Care  a-sheddin',  naught  a-dreadin', 
With  just  one  my  steps  to  share, 

That  's  the  road  that  I  'd  be  treadin' 
From  Feale  Water  to  Kenmare  ! 


55 


HOLY  WELLS 

A  T  Toberaribba, 
•**'     Sooth,  what  do  you  think, 
'T  is  not  holy  water 
They  go  for  to  drink  ! 

At  Tobernanavin, 

As  sure  as  you  're  born, 
There  's  dancing  and  prancing 

And  juice  of  the  corn  ! 

At  Tobernacerta, 

They  sport  on  the  green ; 
There  's  laughing  and  chaffing, 

And  lots  of  poteen  ! 

At  Tobernaglashy, 

With  moss  at  the  brink, 

There  's  much  holy  water, 
But  not  for  to  drink  ! 


56 


LOW  TIDE 

sun  on  tfhe  reeds  an'  rushes, 
An'  the  sand  outstretched  before, 
An'  the  sun  on  the  kelp  an'  shingle 
Away  off  Galway  shore. 

An'  the  sun  on  the  rocks  behind  me, 
Bright  on  the  gorse  an'  whin, 

An'  the  sun  on  the  slantin'  dories 
With  their  white  sails  tackin'  in. 

Oh,  I  '11  be  gay  o'  the  sunlight, 

Glad  of  its  glint  an'  grace, 
If  its  beams  will  only  show  me 

The  smile  on  one  sailor's  face  ! 


57 


THE  "BOHAREEN"' 

JN  the  kingdom  they  call  "  Kerry  "  there  's  a 

"bohareen"  goes  climbin' 
Above  the  thatch  o'  cots  at  Ballymore  — 
A  little  rovin'  footway  —  an'  the  goat  bells  keep 

a-chimin' 
In  the  heather  slopin'  upward  from  the  shore 

For  the  slopes  are  clad  with  heather,  noddin' 

heather,  purple  heather, 
Where  the  bees  make  honey-music  in  the 

noon ; 
An*  if  you  should  chance  to  stray  there  in  a 

scrap  o'  sunny  weather 
A  warbler  will  be  tossin'  you  a  tune. 

An*  you  can  look  to  seaward  through  the  gray- 
green  gulf  o'  wonder 
An'  watch  the  slantin'  sails  a-dippin'  far, 
An'  you  can  mark  about  you  how  the  rocks  are 

rent  asunder, 

An'  the  heights  are  mountin'  up  to  reach  the 
star. 


1  "Bohareen,"  bypath. 
58 


But  it's  not  the  sea  below  it,  nor  the  craggy 

crests  above  it, 

Nor  the  bracken  with  the  mosses  soft  between, 
Nor  the  droopin'  bells  o'  heather,  nay,  it 's  not 

for  these  I  love  it, 
That  wanderin',  that  windin'  "  bohareen  !  " 

But  a  thought  that  keeps  a-chimin'  in  my  heart 

like  tender  rhymin' 
Of  one  who  clambered   upward   from   the 

shore  — 
Whose  feet  with  mine  kept  timin'  as  the  pair  o' 

us  went  climbin' 
Long  ago  that  "  bohareen  "  at  Ballymore  ! 


59 


AN  IRISH  IDYL 

A  S  I  stood   amid   the   bracken,  as  I  stood 
f  *•     amid  the  fern, 
I  could  hear  the  merry  bicker,  the  blithe  bicker 

of  the  burn. 

Bees  were  hummin',  softly  hummin' ; 
"She 's  a  comin' !     She  's  a  comin'  !  " 
With  a  little  spurt  of  laughter  called  the  brook 
at  every  turn. 

"  Watch  her  !    watch  her  !    watch  her !    watch 

her  !  "  cried  a  curlew  overhead  ; 
An'  I  knew  that  it  was  Norah  by  the  trippin' 

of  her  tread ; 

An'  a  gentle  wind  a  croonin' 
In  the  silence  of  the  noonin' — 
"  Dare  you  kiss  her?  dare  you  kiss  her? "  were 
the  saucy  words  it  said. 

Sure,  it  stirred  the  heart  within  me,  did  that 

tauntin'  of  the  wind, 
For  the  selfsame  heart  I  mentioned  was  a  sort 

of  darin'  kind ; 

When  she  came  within  my  reachin' 
There  was  no  pause  for  beseechin', 
For  I  kissed  her,  an*  I  kissed  her,  an',  faith, 
Norah  didn't  mind  ! 


60 


AN  IRISH  LASS 

IV/TY  love  has  kissed  me  on  the  lips  an'  sailed 

•*.*•*-     beyond  the  sea, 

An',  sooth,  that  was  a  sorry  day  for  Terrence 

an'  for  me, 
An'  yet  I  whispered   him   "  God   speed "   his 

fortune  for  to  win, 
For  there  's  little  gold  in  Ireland  save  that  upon 

the  whin  ! 

Like  weary  feet  the  days  drag  by ;  the  heart  o' 

me  is  sad  ; 
The   keenin'  o'   the   wind   at  night,   it  nearly 

drives  me  mad ; 
The  cries  o'  children  in  the  street,  they  quaver 

lorn  an'  thin, 
For  there  's  little  gold  in  Ireland  save  that  upon 

the  whin  ! 

But  when  my  own  lad  comes  again,  ah,  colleen, 

't  will  be  sweet ; 
There  '11  be  the  peal  o'  weddin'  bells  across  the 

fields  o'  peat ; 
Faith,  I  can  hear  him  sayin'  it,  with  his  shy 

sort  o'  grin, 
u  There  's  more  gold  now  in  Ireland  than  that 

upon  the  whin  !  " 


61 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  LUCKEEN 

ONE    day    as    I    stood    at    the    Bridge    of 
Luckeen, 

Above  the  bright  water  all  glancin'  an*  green, 
There  strayed  down  the  path  from  the  top  of 

the  pass 
Such  a  slim  little,  prim  little,  trim  little  lass. 

"  Oho  !  "  then  quoth  I,  and  "aha  !  "  murmured 

she, 

With  as  pretty  a  curtsy  as  ever  you  'd  see ; 
"Won't  you   pause?"    I    inquired;    "I  don't 

mind,"  said  her  mien, 
So  we  looked,  side  by  side,  from  the  Bridge  of 

Luckeen. 

How  the  minutes  flew  by,  an'  the  stream  how 

it  flowed, 

While  never  a  soul  came  along  by  the  road ; 
An'  I  thought  her  eyes  sweeter  than   Maeve 

ever  knew, 
An'  she  deemed  me  far  bolder  than  Brian  Boru  ! 

There  's  a  priest  that  ties  knots,  so  the  knowin' 

ones  say, 
In  a  neat  little  church  in  the  town  of  Glenbeigh ; 

62 


If  he  '11  tie  just  one  more,  I  '11  be  thinkin',  I 

ween, 
If    there 's   luck    anywhere,    there   is  luck    at 

Luckeen ! 


63 


DONEGAL 

WE  made  Donegal  in  the  teeth  of  gray 
weather, 
We  made  Donegal  with  the  wind  blowing 

free, 
And   the  spindrift  at  toss  like  a  snowy  gull's 

feather 

Where  the  highlands  lean  down  to  the  lips 
of  the  sea. 

We  left  Donegal  in  the  azure  blue  weather, 
We  left  Donegal  with  a  soft  breeze  a-lee, 

With  bees  in  the  broom  and  the  sun  on  the 

heather, 
And  scarcely  a  ripple  astir  on  the  sea. 

But  give   me   to  come   in   the   teeth  of    gray 

weather, 
Oh,  give  me  to  come  with  the  wind  blowing 

free, 
And  love's  arms  to  clasp  in  their  welcoming 

tether 
A  wanderer  worn  with  the  toils  of  the  sea ! 

For  't  is  sorrow  to  go  in  the  azure  blue  weather, 
'T  is  sorrow  to  go  with  a  soft  breeze  a-lee, 


64 


Leaving  love's  yearning  arms  where  one  fain 

would  find  tether, 

Watching  dear  Donegal  sinking  down  in  the 
sea! 


65 


AN  IRISH  SONG 


me  lifts  the  peat-reek 
That  parts  and  drifts  and  veers, 
And  the  wind's  uneasy  moaning 
Is  loud  about  mine  ears. 

The  waves  upon  the  shingle 

They  murmur  drearily, 
And  the  streamers  of  the  fog-wraith 

Drive  in  from  the  open  sea. 

The  mist  hangs  over  the  passes, 
The  mist  hangs  over  the  moors, 

And  the  eerie  cry  of  the  curlew 
It  quavers  and  endures. 

And  it  all  is  lonely,  lonely, 

And  there  's  sorrow  on  every  face, 
But  the  heart  of  me  needs  must  love  it, 

For  the  land  is  mine  own  place  ! 


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